


Midday, Interrupted

by mangocianamarch



Series: The MangoCutie Chronicles [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Bilbo is a lusty wanton little creature yessss, Both of them, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Thorin in the Shire, also they are saps, but only for Thorin teehee, they are sappy saps, they are the sappiest saps to ever sap anything sappy, well okay there's a LITTLE bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There isn't a soul alive in the Shire that does not know when Thorin Oakenshield has come for his regular visit with his Hobbit husband (thanks mostly to the noise). Still, that doesn't stop a visitor or two from checking in with a tiny, <i>tiny</i> request. Which, in turn, does not exactly stop Thorin from enjoying what Bilbo has to offer, to put it delicately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midday, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> This is 2 days' worth of RPing between myself and [Rachel](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/barracutie). We won't tell you who wrote what, we'll leave that up to you to figure out, if you really wish to. We both hope you enjoy this because _we_ certainly enjoyed putting it together.
> 
> This is, for the most part, un-beta'd, so any mistakes are totally our own. (Which doesn't make sense really since I'M the one doing the beta-ing as well LELZ.)
> 
> As always, we do not own ANYTHING, and we would appreciate feedback very, very much. :D

Initially believing such a domestic life in Bag End with Bilbo to be considered droll and unsatisfying, Thorin is rather surprised when he finds himself waking early to check their tiny crop of garden land before joining Bilbo in their ritual habit of drinking morning tea upon the hobbit's sturdy bench. He finds the landscape to be vivid and fresh; sweet where Erebor is made of steel and framed in memories of pain.

Thorin is on his bi-monthly visit to stay with Bilbo, and Dain acts as Steward while he is on his leave. The dwarf is content to appease his huffy little spouse, and for seven days they do nothing but eat, fuck, and talk of simple, happy things. Yes, Thorin is quite surprised indeed.

He wears breathable cotton shirts - today it is a dark dusky blue and cinched at the waist by his leather breeches - and each morning Bilbo's deft, tiny fingers catch in his coal-black hair to twist his loosened braids tightly once more. Thorin catches a delicate wrist in his big paw of a hand, stilling Bilbo's ministrations.

"You are most beautiful under such concentration, beloved," he murmurs, voice low and edging on the beginnings of a sensual purr.

Bilbo blushes, and is sure Thorin can see it down to his wrist, where his lips linger in a feather-like touch. "I cannot help but concentrate, love, you know that," he says, attempting a dismissive tone but half-failing, "Your braids must be no less than perfect. Whatever beauty you perceive that comes with it is but consequential, and something that perhaps only your eyes can see."

He, of course, had not missed the slight edge in Thorin's voice, nor does he now miss the way the kisses on his hand deepen ever so slightly with every press of his husband's lips. He wants to tell Thorin how much he appreciates these few days that he is at the Shire, allowing himself to be loving spouse and not much more, leaving all the trappings and stresses of his kingly duty behind in Erebor, but Bilbo has never been sure that any words would be enough to truly do his love justice. So instead, he takes his hand back and continues to do up Thorin's braid, careful to tug only enough to keep the plaits tight.

"Such pretty words you grace me with," Thorin replies smoothly between each brush of his lips, rubbing the soft fullness of his beard along Bilbo's thrumming pulse point, "I fear one day your silver tongue shall bid me an early death with its overdose of sweetness." His own words are akin to the face of a cliff cracking apart and tumbling down, midnight-low and deeply reverberating. He lifts the dark wing of one thick brow, allowing Bilbo to continue with his gentle weaving, ceasing his advances for the time being.

They sit in a comfortable silence upon Bilbo's massive bed, save for the bleating of sheep and soft chirpings of birds that nestle close by the carefully arranged flowerpots on each windowsill. The air inside his husband's smial is clean and fresh, lightly peppered with accents of vanilla and almond from second breakfast's sweet cakes and strong tea.

"And might I properly display my affections for whom I perceive as beautiful?" Thorin asks this quietly when Bilbo's hands have settled against his own slim thighs.

It is quite the struggle for Bilbo to keep a smile off of his face. "And how, might I ask, do you plan on displaying these affections?" he asks, "And would I, should it come to this, be allowed to reciprocate, or at least make an attempt to mirror such a display?"

He's very aware of his hands on Thorin's thighs, climbing ever higher at a turtle's pace. Already he is drawn in, as if the night before had not been spent making as much noise as possible and waking all of Hobbiton up with the love-cries Thorin had pulled from him. Oh, but it is far too easy to drown in the deep blue of Thorin's eyes, and even easier to be swallowed by the growing and love-driven desire that darkens them. Still, Bilbo keeps a safe distance, not wanting things to be over before they've even begun.

Thorin feigns deep consideration, running the broad sweep of his palms to squeeze at the edge of their shared mattress. "How indeed...how could my pretty little spouse offer me pleasure this morning?" Thin lips curving into a wolfish smirk, Thorin has only Bilbo's endearing gestures to blame when he shifts quickly, the hobbit pinned tight to the bed by either slender wrist, ensnared like a trembling, wide-eyed rabbit. "I wish to _feel inside_ you once more, Bilbo. You've all but washed my essence from within, and it is but my duty to leave you tainted and filled."

"Oh goodness," Bilbo breathes, chuckling a little, his body jerking of its own accord up towards Thorin, "How quickly we've gone from flowers to filth. Is this our fate, then, husband?" He reaches up for a quick peck on Thorin's lips. "Very well then, you greedy brute, see to your duty, and I shall assist in whatever way I can." The way he rolls his hips against Thorin's now is no longer involuntary, nor is the little smirk in the corner of his own mouth at the small sigh that it garners him.

"Is my indulgence in our bed sport so utterly brutish?" Thorin inquires with an innocent blink of his pale blues. His tone shifts abruptly, turning as playful and teasing as the finger he now rubs down the seam of Bilbo's trousers. "Am I _that_ depraved, little one?" Strong, thick fingers curl over the swell of one hip, allowing his thumb to move freely up and down Bilbo's inner thigh.

"Very depraved," Bilbo insists with a slight giggle, "Very brutish. Greedy when outside, rough when inside. Rough, fast, hard...Very hard..." He is rambling, almost, but he cannot stop to wonder at this when he knows the cause. Thorin's hand is so dangerously close and yet so infuriatingly far from where Bilbo now wants it. He can feel blood rushing there, depriving his brain of the ability for coherent thought quite quickly indeed. He squirms, wriggling to try and get Thorin's hand closer and closer, growing ever more frustrated when Thorin's hand stays put.

"Such a tangible recollection you harbor," Thorin insists, delving his hand to slowly inch down the inside hem of Bilbo's soft trousers, the blunt of his fingernail edging over each golden stitch. "Almost as if you can _just_ taste it's potency, no?" He breaks the mood with a surly chuckle, then inclines his face low to press and rub against the jut of that hardening cock below.

"I believe," he mumbles, very slightly mouthing at the outline, "I believe I shall have you sit upon my face so that I may be granted access to the most beloved areas of your anatomy. Does that sound agreeable?"

Bilbo bites at his bottom lip to keep down a groan. "As I said," he sighs, " _Filth_. A lesser hobbit would be absolutely scandalized and positively frightened by how forward you are with your wants and intents." Thorin's hot breath permeates through the undone laces of his breeches. Bilbo pushes up onto his elbows and fixes Thorin with a look. "Thankfully, I am not such a hobbit, and it _does_ sound agreeable. How do you want me then?"

A flash of dark, primal lust flickers into view as Thorin calmly regards Bilbo and tracks the removal of his smallclothes. "Filth indeed," he agrees, lips fastened and sucking at the sensitive patch of skin behind one bent knee, "Especially so when you are begging for my prick to fill you at night, for my fingers to stroke and my mouth to taste."

In answer to the hobbit's curt question, Thorin finishes shrugging out of his belted tunic, revealing a broad, muscle-packed chest made of sinew and dense bone, lightly furred by dark, dark hairs. He settles himself neatly upon his back against the flat of their mattress, and makes a show of swiping the tip of his tongue over each strikingly white tooth. "Come hither. I will guide you."

Sweet Yavanna, but Thorin is beautiful. It is not the first time the thought has crossed Bilbo's mind, but he has not meant it any less than when he had first heard himself think it. Thorin is all grit and muscle, as steady and as strong as the Mountain he rules, and there is not a plain on his body that Bilbo can resist touching.

As he crawls over, feeling only slightly silly, he gives into the temptation to kiss Thorin's skin. His lips offer the softest of touch as he progresses from Thorin's navel and upward, until he is kissing above Thorin's heart. He can feel every beat of it, and presses his lips a tad deeper there, before turning his face up to kiss Thorin's lips. He takes his time here, letting the kiss speak words that he himself cannot.

But while his lips smile and kiss sweetly, his body betrays his need. He cannot help but grind his hips into the hard form underneath him, eager for the friction, for the slide of Thorin's skin on his, and it takes Bilbo a while to remember what it is Thorin has told him to do.

"Your kiss is a distraction," Bilbo accuses before Thorin can do so, "I had nearly forgotten where we had agreed it _should_ be at this moment instead of on my lips."

With a weathered sigh, Thorin parts his legs and gently eases a set of fingers through those coppery ringlets that sway below, breathing slowly as his body is reverently tended to. Bilbo's lips are warm and slightly damp, a hint of tongue flickering against each kiss pressed against the taut of his skin. It's both heavenly and enticingly erotic, coaxing Thorin's heavy prick to stir and push insistently at his own laces until he too is rolling upward, palming at Bilbo's pert little arse to prompt further rubbing.

"Mmn, my forgetful burglar," he mutters, and edges Bilbo close with a promise of their mouths meeting. They do, and Thorin is immediately wedging his way inside those hot confines, lapping steadily along Bilbo's soft palette and nipping his smaller tongue. "Pray tell, for I seem to have forgotten your worthy cause as well." There is an evident smirk hidden behind that sentence, punctuated by a firm squeeze along Bilbo's bared waist. Thorin is eyeing the stout little shaft that bobs so gorgeously against their abdomens, though, irritatingly enough, he makes no further moves.

"Oh, you are utterly horrible," Bilbo moans at the squeeze, growling his impatience when Thorin does nothing more, "Horrible." He gives him a deep, hungry, but brief kiss. "I believe, husband, that you promised to have your mouth devouring me where I am most secret."

Oh how his dear mother would probably blush and click her tongue at him for such forwardness, but any respectability that Bilbo might have once owned had flown right out the door and drowned itself in the river the first time Thorin had surprised him with a visit. Bilbo had decided long ago that pretense of any sort around Thorin would be a waste of effort, and nowadays finds absolute pleasure in bringing the smallest of smiles to Thorin's stern face with his own brand of lasciviousness.

"You ordered me, I believe," he sighs, moving his body deliberately slowly up along Thorin's, "To settle myself on your face so you may see to your promise."

"Aye," Thorin groans, his voice at once thick and low and humming, "That I did.."

No longer able to resist his spouse's sweetly forward intentions, Thorin rests his head against a flattened pile of feather-stuffed pillows so that his locks of dark ebony fan wildly out, both hands straying to unlace the tightly drawn strings holding his own lower garments snug. They are untied, shucked down, then kicked free before he returns his attentions to Bilbo and grants him the softest and warmest of smiles. "A promise I intend to keep. Thoroughly and most completely."

He first runs either large hand up Bilbo's chest, caressing each button with practiced flicks of finger and nail until the billowy material slides softly down the slopes of those narrow shoulders. The effect is headily gratifying, evoking a gentle growl from Thorin, who then urges Bilbo to shift definably closer by each knee. This places that brave little prick right against the proud line of his nose, which he runs up and down, leading to suckling kisses along Bilbo's flushed shaft.

Despite his bold (well, bold for a hobbit) words, Bilbo sucks in his bottom lip to keep from making too loud a noise when Thorin's lips at last make contact with his cock. Each kiss sends a tingle through Bilbo's body, and he mewls deep in his throat and out of his nose. He cannot help but watch Thorin, who looks up at him with sweet affection in one moment and dark desire the next. Bilbo thinks he can handle this, but Thorin's tongue flicks out, just under the head of Bilbo's prick, at the tip of the vein, and Bilbo lets out a choked out moan, one hand shooting out and grabbing the headboard.

"Oh, save me," he exhales, his other hand fisted on his thigh to keep him from grabbing Thorin, "I need more, Thorin, more of your wicked, sinful mouth."

Rather than provide Bilbo with an answer crafted of filthy cleverness, Thorin finds it much more compelling to simply continue his teasing caresses. He tongues past the velvety fold of foreskin, delving _just_ below Bilbo's slit to gather a taste of his sweet essence. So sweet, in point, that this earns Bilbo a wet, bristly kiss to the blushing head of that cock. From there, Thorin is relentless. His high-boned cheeks are hollow as he gives Bilbo a sharp suck, only releasing him to swipe both palms under his backside and coax a gentle, rhythmic motion of rocking.

Each shallow thrust is met with the rather debauched sounds of wet suction, and this only rouses Thorin's cock to arch high and eager against his navel.

"Oh goodness, yes," Bilbo hisses, "Oh, Thorin." He hardly needs the urging of Thorin's hands to move into the wet heat of his mouth. The hand he has on his thigh crosses Thorin's cheek until it's in his hair, and he is stroking and tugging in equal measure, and Thorin meets his caresses with sharp sucks and languid licking.

"Thorin, please," Bilbo whimpers when Thorin's teeth graze the sensitive vein that runs underneath his length, "Oh, by the gods, Thorin, I want more. Your lips, your tongue, your hands, anything."

"You always desire more," Thorin rumbles, but he heeds his husband's whimpering tugs, wriggling down a touch as his thumbs slide to knead and part Bilbo's cheeks. His hole (the other variety of hobbit holes, mind you), always kept clean and rosy-pink, is fondly mouthed over, then blown against with a huff of hot breath. "Greedy, impetulant creature."

Thorin finds the scent and taste pleasing enough to warrant a broad swipe of his heavy tongue, and then he laps around the furled rim with insistent, strong strokes before fully sucking against the twitching muscle as an idle finger rubs focused circles into the little sac above.

The sound that escapes Bilbo cannot be classified under any known language. His voice rises now in both pitch and volume, and he rocks against Thorin's face eagerly. His beard causes delicious, stinging friction, and part of Bilbo is coherent enough to think he will be feeling _that_ for a few days indeed, but he cannot bring himself to care quite just yet. Thorin's tongue is wicked,  _wicked_ , and Bilbo's chest and stomach heave as Thorin's skill causes his breath to shorten. He reaches a hand down to his abandoned but not forgotten cock, giving himself a few sharp tugs, and lets out a keening moan when Thorin's finger presses into the space between his bollocks and his hole. He squeezes around the base of his shaft, finding the need to stave off even the beginnings of a release.

"Inside me, Thorin," he purrs, "Please, or it will be the death of me."

"Peace, Bilbo. Should I shove myself in, you would be absolutely _ruined_ ," Thorin replies, muffled, and gives Bilbo's arse a tight pinch, "Devastatingly so." Mirth peeks out from his words, and if there is a certain sadistic glint behind Thorin's icy eyes and a masochistic edge to Bilbo's begging whine, neither of the two mention it.

He is just reaching over to retrieve the bottle of slick when there comes a sharp series of raps at the rounded front door, and Thorin stills, rigid and taut.

Then, a crooked smile is pulling at the thin of his lips and he's prompting Bilbo to slide down with a helpful roll of their positions. "Go answer it. You may wear your robe, but I shall not have your good name tarnished on my account."

"Oh, dash my good name," Bilbo mutters bitterly as Thorin ushers him off the bed, "It was tarnished the day you and your unruly pack came bursting into my home quite unannounced." He pushes himself into the space between Thorin's legs where he is sitting on the edge of the bed, kissing him earnestly. Unfortunately for him, the knocking comes again, and he pulls away with a frustrated growl, which earns himself a deep chuckle.

"Oh, bugger you then, whoever you are," Bilbo huffs as he grabs his patchwork robe and hastily puts it on (although he's not quite sure the thickness of it is enough to hide the evidence of his need), "Hang on. And where will _you_ be all this time, husband mine? Just casually waiting here for my return?"

"With bated breath," Thorin promises, smugly hiding a flash of white teeth. Oh, but if only Bilbo _knew_. He draws Bilbo close for one more searing mash of lips and tongue, then gently aids in tying the crimson sash tight around that slimmed waistline. Indeed, he can _just_ make out the hidden line of an aroused prick beneath, but Thorin confidently suspects whoever this nosy neighbor is won't be actively seeking out such a thing. "Now go."

As Bilbo patters off, huffy grumbles trailing behind, Thorin eases himself from the mattress and squeezes a generous amount of the sweetly-fragranced almond oil into his fingers until they drip onto the smooth-paneled floor. He is smirking like the cat who got both the cream AND a nice, fat mouse, but this is not a mouse he is after.

There Bilbo is, hiding his lower torso behind the door whilst casually striking up a conversation with Ham Gamgee, his diligent gardener. Thorin pauses, then edges close, catching drifty bits of their hearty exchange as he lifts the back of Bilbo's intricate robe, one slick finger firmly rubbing up and down that exposed cleft.

"So, as I was sayin', Mr. Bilbo," Ham says earnestly, "Everyone was wonderin' 'n hopin' if you would do the honors of bein' this year's judge for the annual Ribbon Contest..?"

A squeak of surprise escapes Bilbo before he can reel it in, and by the way Ham Gamgee stops mid-word and gives him a look of utter confusion tells Bilbo it's too much to hope he hadn't heard.

"You all right there, Mr. Bilbo?" Ham inquires, and Bilbo has to swallow thickly before he can answer, because Thorin's finger, blunt and slick, is teasing at his entrace, tracing along the rim.

"Fine," Bilbo chokes out, "Just fine." The smile he puts on is so sweet that he's sure Hamfast can tell how false it is." You were saying about the, uh, con-contest?"

He flings out a foot but gets only air. He hears Thorin chuckle quietly, and swears to someone's deity he's going to thump him later.

"---trust no other judgment but yours, really," Hamfast is saying, "You do grow some of the best perennials and azaleas around."

"Oh, well," Bilbo coughs, because Thorin is  _pressing_ , just _pressing_ , and if he's not mistaken, he can feel lips and nicks at his arse, "I...er...ahem, that is...yes, of course, I --"

He feels his knees weaken when one sly finger pushes its way past Bilbo's rim, slow but in. Bilbo grabs at the door and its jamb for support, and his voice catches again.

"I'll do it, yes," he offers hastily to Hamfast, "Now, if that's quite everything, I've...things to...er..."

Hamfast sends Bilbo a worried glance, then finds himself shaking his head. "No sir! I'll tell the others right away. Thank you ever so much for your time, Mr. Bi-"

The poor gardener wears a look of absolute horror when Thorin's amused face appears, and the dwarf is smiling rather serenely despite the tales of an austere frown permanently etched into his chiseled features.  
"Oh! M-Mr..I m-mean King Thorin! I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to be interruptin' any-"

"Not at all, Hamfast," Thorin responds cooly, and he just _twists_ the broad width of his finger inside Bilbo, letting the oil guide the path within. Inclining his head toward Bilbo's, he laughs quietly. "Surely you have news of this spring's crops? I'm certain Bilbo has been eager to hear of such, yes?"

Ham nibbles his lower lip nervously still, but the worried crease against his forehead has faded and he pulls off his cap respectfully before nodding to Bilbo. "Well, the farms near South Farthing have reported a good yield this month..."  
As the gardener rambles on, Thorin lowers his mouth, discreetly murmuring as his forefinger crooks and wriggles around inside Bilbo, a second oiled digit lowering and struggling to push in with the first. "Nod at him ever so often, beloved. You look as though you can't concentrate..."

Bilbo would give anything in the world right now to take something to the back of Thorin's head. When he'd casually thrown aside his reputation earlier in exchange for more time with Thorin, this was _not_ what he'd had in mind at all.

Still, he sees the logic in Thorin's advice, and tries to follow as much as he can. But with every twist of Thorin's hand, every wag of his finger, it gets increasingly harder to keep up a facade of normalcy. He's quite sure his poor, pained cock must be very obvious even through his thick robe now, and would not be surprised if he were to look down now and see a patch of wetness there from his desire.

"Yes, yes, it all sounds..." Bilbo tells Hamfast hastily, quite unsure if he has interrupted the poor gardener, "...Oh, it all sounds so...so wonderful, and...oh goodness..."

Bilbo thinks he sees a slight flush rise to Ham's cheeks, and can only imagine what he must've sounded like just now to make that happen.

"Not to worry, Ham," Bilbo offers, "I will be there. I'll...oh my...I'm looking forward to it. Goodbye and good day then!"

"But Mister Bilbo--" Hamfast tries.

"I said good day!" Bilbo whimpers, only half-horrified at his own rudeness as he slams the door shut and falls forward onto it. "Thorin Oakenshield, you horrid, _horrid_ creature!"

Thorin hums softly, recalling with a smile how Bilbo's tiny nods to offer his agreement to each statement Ham offered was rather telling, his lovely moans filtered through each soft word. Poor Hamfast had looked quite startled, and red to the point Thorin wondered if he had caught a fever.

Now, with Bilbo shakily clutching to the door frame for dear life, Thorin angles himself over Bilbo's curved spine, relentlessly beginning to pump and curl his fingers against that inner gland that made Bilbo's knees overwhelmingly weak with fatigue.

"Dirty, wanton thing," he croons in a murmur, shifting his hand upwards to continue his merciless pegs, "How taken he looked with you! I saw hunger in his eyes..."

And then Thorin has slipped his fingers free with a wet, quiet pop, and he hurriedly unfastens Bilbo's robe to leave him bare and beautifully exposed. "I should take you outside," he growls, catching the delicate cartilage of one pointed ear between his teeth to tug, "I should claim you thusly so that others will _shy_ from our presence." Arms, strong and firmly muscled, fit under Bilbo's thighs as Thorin spreads them wide, wide, wide. His fingers return at full force, slipping past the hobbit's hole to continue their searching assault.

Bilbo pounds a fist against his door, crying out at the sudden fullness from Thorin's fingers, his husband's threat ringing low in his ears. "Oh don't," Bilbo pleads weakly, "Goodness, no. Wouldn't be able to - oh _THORIN_ \- wouldn't be able to stand it. Want you all to myself, you terrible git, wouldn't want anyone else - oh YAVANNA, yes - seeing you and wanting you."

He can barely stay standing, what with Thorin's lips just behind his ear, where he is quite sensitive indeed, but he bucks backwards onto Thorin's hand, trying to get more of him inside, needing him deeper, where he -

" _OH._ "

Bilbo's knees truly _do_ buckle this time, and if it weren't for Thorin's other arm around him, keeping him on his feet, Bilbo would've crumpled to the floor. Thorin's crooked finger finds his sensitivity again, and he lets a rather undignified but no less wanton squeak. "Oh, Thorin, please..."

"Indeed?" Thorin drawls, and his voice is piqued with undisclosed interest at Bilbo's possessive cries. He leers at this, rewarding his little husband with two firm pumps that are packed with enough force to make Bilbo jerk upward with a strained cry. "I quite like the sound of your begging...tell me, _azyungal_ , how badly do you desire my prick?"

He's pressing himself close to Bilbo, his otherwise unoccupied hand gathering the halfling's tiny wrists to hang above that shaking head. "I am wont with desire to fuck you, Bilbo," Thorin whispers, the slicked head of his cock making it's sizable presence known by nudging between Bilbo's smooth thighs to rub and rut. "I want to hear how you think it would feel, how I ruin you..."

"Oh please," Bilbo sighs, wondering how he has enough coherence to reply, "I want it in me, love, I need it. I want it to stretch me and fill me. I want the ache that comes with it, because it reminds me that you and I are joined. I want you both gentle and rough, loving and lusting. I want you to claim me, and I want you to mark me. I want all of Middle-Earth to know whom I truly belong to."

As he speaks, Thorin's fingers scissor inside him, stretching him and loosening him, but Bilbo knows Thorin will always feel just _this side_ of too much, just enough for the sting to feel _good_.

"Thorin, please," Bilbo whines, "Can't bear it...Oh, goodness, I need you...Here, or on the bed, I don't care, just _please_..."

Each pleading word sends Thorin higher into a state of bliss as he diligently works the thick of his joined fingers to tug and slide as deeply as Bilbo's body is made to allow. The callused tips _drag_ their snagging surface along Bilbo's silky inner muscles, pressing in just a bit to stroke at that tiny spot that forces more warbling moans from those perfect, swollen lips.

"Hotter inside than Aulë's forges, you are," he praises, and when he finally lets his aching fingers to drop, the dwarf is kneeling, keening low at the sight of that entrance, stretched puffy and slick with a generous excess of oils. "By the grace of the gods, Bilbo..."

To take Bilbo against the door would be glorious, yes, but Thorin suspects come the evening, his spouse will be grouchy and disinclined to go "on another adventure" as they affectionately coined the act of their couplings. With a snort, he easily grasps under the hook of those trembling knees and sweeps a hand to support Bilbo's upper back to carry him halfway across the cozy smial.

They do not make it very far, and in the most sensible of perspectives one wouldn't put much blame on Thorin when he's bending Bilbo over the dining room table - the very spot where he sat that year ago - and forcing his cock to slide inside smooth and easy with a series of breathless grunts.

Bilbo groans low and long as Thorin's cock fills him, the way slicked from Thorin's fingers and his leaking prick. It's not quite enough, by logic, but Bilbo craves the sting, craves the ache and the burn that comes with Thorin pushing in quite unaided by oil. They're careful, of course, always careful, but Bilbo can't help but love the risks. One does not come to love Thorin without loving risks.

Bilbo's hands seek purchase on whatever is within reach as Thorin begins to thrust shallowly into him, fingers digging into his rounded hips. His feet are nearly dangling off the ground, but he manages to find enough leverage to meet the jerk of Thorin's hips midway, causing them both to moan loud and abrupt as Thorin slips in _just right_. One of Bilbo's hands reaches to find Thorin's, and their fingers clasp together as Thorin truly begins to take his pleasure.

Each thrust draws less and less voice and coherence from Bilbo, until he is reduced to unfinished words and brutal curses that would make even the Old Took blush beet red. Only when Bilbo begs for more is he able to form complete sentences, but Thorin makes up for it with his own broken growls.

Indeed, those low-strung, rumbling snarls that leave Thorin's tightly grit teeth are nothing short of animalistic as he offers Bilbo a few hard bucks, each time delving the girth of his cock a little deeper, a little harder. He has Bilbo's slimmer waist pinned to the mahogany table with the bulk of his torso, and each thrust he delivers earns him a jerky kick against his firm calves from those suspended feet.

"My little darling," he teases, aiming his hips leftward to hit just _right_ there. Bilbo's face is snapping up, and he sees how utterly red and wet it is from tears of pure frustration. "So tightly clenched still...am I _that_ large? Am I such a challenge for you to accept?"

Without the patience to wait for a clever answer in return, Thorin bows forward, lips drawn back and a rough bark tearing itself from his mouth as he rams himself repeatedly into Bilbo's mostly pliant form, a loud smack emitting each time their skin makes contact.

How Thorin expects him to reply to that with any coherence, Bilbo doesn't know. He can't even begin to try. And when Thorin re-angles and finds Bilbo's sensitivity with frightening but familiar precision, Bilbo loses the ability to do anything else but _feel_. He cries out when Thorin presses himself against him, breathing and kissing at his neck and hair and ears, and his words are garbled but his intentions are clear.

Bilbo's fist comes down hard on the table when he feels that familiar burning ache in his belly beginning to spike. He arches back, trying to get more of Thorin inside him. He cannot reach down to either stroke himself to completion or to hold off his release, not with the way Thorin has him pinned, and he whines.

"Thorin," Bilbo pants, "I feel...Oh, please, I'm going to..."

"No," Thorin hisses, immediately wrenching a set of fingers down to grip and apply a firm round of squeezes to the base of Bilbo's weeping prick. The entirety of his hand engulfs the straining length, and Thorin exhales, pleased.

His thrusts eventually lessen until he is holding Bilbo still, barely grinding himself into that constricting passage. It's just as unbearable, just as horrid for him, but Thorin finds solace in staving off their releases. It reminds him of his days of poor solitude, where _nothing_ came of anything and he was without hope. To know an innumerable amount of pleasure awaits both their souls despite the long, drawn-out session brings Thorin immense gratitude.

Sensually, he slides one hand down to rub behind Bilbo's tiny shoulder blades, humming a brief, long-forgotten song as he wills his arousal to wind down and allow them a few more moments to induce themselves in this rough play they have come to covet. "...Ready?"

Bilbo is heaving, struggling to return his breathing to normal. He is both grateful and disappointed that Thorin has stopped his release, but he knows Thorin finds more satisfaction in drawing out their ecstasy. There is an affectionate softness in Thorin's question that Bilbo recognizes, and he wishes he could kiss him now, if only to let him know how his heart flutters at the mere thought that Thorin could feel this way about him.

"Yes, love," Bilbo replies with a nod, "But I would like to see your face. You are utterly beautiful in your rapture, and I want to see you. Please, love." He reaches for Thorin's hand again and gives it a small squeeze. "Be as rough or as gentle with me as you please, I am yours, but let me see you."

"Yes," Thorin answers, a touch stunned, and gingerly pulls himself free in order to gather Bilbo and twist him forward. There's those flushed cheeks, that fair complexion glossed over with sweat and framed by damp, darkened curls. But what causes Thorin's breath to draw in tight is the amount of sheer adoration that pools in Bilbo's smoky blue eyes, radiating feelings of both gentle warmth and carnal desire.

He stares but a breadth of a moment longer before hitching Bilbo up to straddle his waist as he sits in one of the sturdy chairs that easily balances their combined weight with not a creak nor groan of distress. This position provides Bilbo with an intimate, glowing view, and Thorin is able to watch his as lover unfolds and breaks down in the pleasure he is ready to bestow.

"Bilbo," he breathes, and presses his mouth to one narrow, rounded shoulder, rolling his cock up to glide inside smoothly. It's almost too much, and he struggles valiantly by squeezing Bilbo tightly, raggedly groaning out his name in breathless little blurts of air.

The sigh that Bilbo was about to let out turns into a sharp moan on that first roll of Thorin's hips. This new position presses Thorin deeper and more insistently against his sensitivity, and he's sure that he won't last very much longer, not like this. The generous squeeze to his shaft is exactly what he needs, and he growls, bending forward and catching Thorin's lips in a searching kiss.

"Move with me," he pleads low, wrapping his arms around Thorin's neck for leverage as he pushes his hips and grinds, loving the way Thorin's jaw drops as he moans, "Take me there, Thorin...Oh  _fuck_ yes..."

Ah, the swearing has begun at last. No, it won't take much more or much longer indeed. Bilbo tries to direct their pace, tries not to quicken it for fear of it ending entirely too soon. He focuses instead on Thorin's face, on the gamut of expressions that crosses it as Thorin watches _him_ in his ecstasy. The usually hard lines of Thorin's face have softened, molding themselves into something different until Thorin doesn't seem exactly the same person anymore, but it _is_ him, unmistakably so. It _is_ Thorin. _His_ Thorin.

When Thorin adopts Bilbo's pace, Bilbo reaches down between them and circles Thorin's hand on his cock with his own smaller hand. He doesn't need to tell Thorin to allow him to lead the stroking, firm and slow and deliberate, avoiding the leaking tip, and tightening around the base.

"I love you," Thorin gasps this; an event akin to Bilbo's stammering curses in the sense that it takes time, patience and effort for the admittance to occur. However, it is just that much more powerfully moving, potently emotional in the broken edge his gruff tone takes.

Crystalline orbs of ice seek out Bilbo's own stormy gaze, and the blues meet and meld before flickering closed as Thorin steals a hand away to grip an edge of the chair, rolling rough and steadily into Bilbo with rocky waves of his hips, each motion straining and flexing his sweat-slicked abdomen below.

His other hand offers Bilbo's poor little prick relief, twisting and tugging in gentle intervals. The swollen head leaks into his grip, tiny streams of precome sliding down the ladder of his knuckles, and Thorin's own cock gives a hard twitch at this, and he's so close, too close. "Come, Bilbo..let me see you in your throes..."

Bilbo whimpers weakly at Thorin's declaration. Not the first time he has heard it, no, but it is never less powerful than the first time or the last time. He believes him, takes strength from it, lets it fill him as Thorin himself does, and it only serves to push him ever closer to the edge.

At Thorin's panted words, Bilbo lets out another sharp curse, gripping at Thorin's shoulder as he bucks into Thorin's fist and onto Thorin's cock. He hears himself begging and pleading as the pace of the hand on him quickens. Much as he wishes he could keep his eyes open, the pleasure coursing through Bilbo causes his eyes to screw shut, and he harshly whispers out a warning.

When he does find release at last, it is with Thorin's thumb relentless around the tip of his cock and on the sensitive skin just under the head, and with Thorin's own length shoved hilt-deep inside Bilbo, pressed hard against his spot. He tenses, a cry caught in his throat. His fingers dig into the joint where Thorin's neck and shoulder meet, and his back is arched slightly, pushing his chest flush into Thorin. At that first, blindingly hot burst, Bilbo moans out Thorin's name, everything else dissolving into growls, his body trembling in Thorin's arms as his climax hits him hard.

Bilbo falls forward, his head on Thorin's shoulder as aftershocks cause him to shudder and groan. He has a hand on Thorin's heart, it's pace steady but hard against Thorin's chest. Opening his eyes, he sees the mess he has made on Thorin's torso. His hand slides down, fingers trailing through his release, and he turns his head to watch as he offers Thorin the evidence of his ecstasy.

There nothing but a blinding light that floats across Thorin's eyelids, and he can no longer hold himself back from savagely bouncing Bilbo against his cock, relishing in that tight, hot internal embrace that effectively tugs release from his all-too-willing body. Thorin comes with a quick jerk of his hips, shuddering as he buries his prick. Bilbo is whimpering by his shoulder as he is filled past his abused rim, because it's too much, too thick...it marks him as Thorin's own.

"Durin's beard," Thorin sighs, tilting his face so that the fleshy area of Bilbo's stickied palm is covered by his beard. Thorin's broad tongue laps between and over Bilbo's offered fingers, suckling each in turn before dropping a tiny kiss to the tips.

"My most beloved treasure of all treasures," he continues, and presses the dampness of his mouth to Bilbo's forehead, unable to say or do much more than just _breathe_ and hold him close to the heavy thrum of his heart.

Limp and exhausted, Bilbo lets himself be held. He reaches up and kisses underneath Thorin's chin. "My wonderfully ravenous spouse," he chuckles, "You tire me so. Look how you leave me boneless and in need of air." He turns his face up to Thorin's, and kisses him as deeply as he can, given his state.

"Never change," he implores Thorin with a tiny smile, "And never let me go. Please? I would crumble without you."

"Then it is settled," Thorin answers him, and even _he_ struggles to keep balance as he lifts Bilbo once more with the well-defined muscles of his arms, a loving cradle, and nuzzles their noses. He feels particularly amorous, enough to warrant another deep, explorative kiss during the stride back to their bedroom.

Bilbo is lovingly settled against his silken sheets of richly hued fabrics, and Thorin falls against him, tugging him close to rest against the crook of his neck and shoulder. He breathes into those autumnal curls, caressing along that small back below to tweak each nub of curved spine in turn before finally answering, "You are but the roots that keep me upon this earth, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. If I were to change, it would only be in the interest to accommodate _you_."

Bilbo cannot help but burrow into Thorin's warmth, clutching what he can of him. "Such pretty, pretty words," he sighs, letting out a bit of a yawn, "You stir me to madness with your poetry, Thorin Oakenshield. If I were any younger or sturdier, I would surely be, er, rising to the occasion again." Another yawn. "But sleep now, though it be midday."

He feels the beginnings of a chuckle rumbling in Thorin's chest, and Bilbo gives him a quick swat.

"A hobbit sleeping the morning away is nothing to laugh at!" he protests, "You shall pay dearly, husband. But perhaps that can wait."

Thorin hums in acquiescence. "I look forward to it," he tells Bilbo, pulling him closer.

 

 

**~ END. ~**


End file.
